


One Step Forward

by kcscribbler



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crew as Family, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Star Trek Beyond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28110051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/pseuds/kcscribbler
Summary: Grounded on Yorktown base for the winter holiday season, the remaining crew of the U.S.S. Enterprise deal with being haunted by metaphorical ghosts of Christmases past.Warning for language and discussion of mental health issues, including depression and seasonal depression, a couple of fairly oblique references to suicidal thoughts/survivor syndrome that would go along with the third movie. If that would be triggering for you this time of year, you have my sympathies and personal understanding. Please heed the warnings.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45





	One Step Forward

**Author's Note:**

> I think it’s fair to say that no matter how physically unscathed this year has left any of us, it’s been a hell of a year. This was more therapeutic than anything else for me personally as I’ve found it a really difficult year in my personal life for a variety of reasons, as I’m sure we all have. I hope you enjoy as well, and have a happy holiday season if you celebrate it in any way.
> 
> Please do not take anything in this fic as official medical advice on the subject of mental health, SAD or any other referenced topic, and if you find yourself or a loved one acting out of the ordinary this holiday season – do something. I can safely say from personal experience, even those of us who usually love the holiday seasons can have bad years, and bad days; and sometimes it can be up to the people around us to pull us out of it.

**Act One**

The starbase Yorktown is, to its credit, the most inclusive ‘base in the sector, thanks to the heavy Starfleet presence within its pristine, almost too-perfect walls and an even heavier inter-planetary presence as the primary docking point for all starship travel, both Starfleet and civilian, in this part of the galaxy. Even with a strong ‘Fleet presence, humanoids are still in the minority here, and thus Terran-based comforts are not the overwhelming majority, as still happens on some smaller ‘Fleet bases.

That said, it appears that even this most inclusive of places has fallen into the unfortunate trap that much of the galaxy still has: that of over-enthusiastically adopting the entire Federation Standard winter season as a conglomerate mish-mash of any and all winter holidays, producing a discordant assortment of garish décor, advertisements, celebrations and other paraphernalia that fairly assaults the senses station-wide. From replicated conifers at every street corner to a blinding array of light displays when the simulated sun sets, the ‘base joyfully and obnoxiously embraces the holidays of at least a dozen different cultures and planets in every direction, no matter where one goes. Open air or indoors, the onslaught is almost _relentlessly_ cheerful.

It is like being in downtown New York on Christmas Eve, but for three entire months of the Standard calendar, encompassing the holidays of six hundred and thirty separate planets, and multiplied by a force of ten thousand bored ‘base employees for whom this is likely the most interesting part of their job all year.

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura, recently of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ and currently on extended ground leave during the construction of the _Enterprise-A_ , is not enjoying the spirit of the season.

Unfortunately, even here on Yorktown, the advertised ‘home comforts’ of their rented apartment do not include doors that can slam behind her. 

“Not a word,” she warns, dumping her keycard and credit chip on the hall’s console table with far more force than necessary. 

Barely raising an eyebrow at her frazzled appearance and the entire lack of packages for which she had exited the apartment two hours previously, Spock merely clicks another page on his padd in what seems to be deliberate sarcasm.

“I swear, I’m actually with McCoy in starting to hate this place.”

Blowing past him into the kitchenette, she makes a beeline for what’s left of the coffee from this morning. Spock doesn’t drink the stuff, and it should still be warm thanks to the thermal unit. A coffee cup hits the counter with enough force to finally draw her not-boyfriend’s full attention from whatever he’s reading, and she finally gets an eyebrow of inquiry. Success.

“Should I presume your ‘shopping trip’ was unsuccessful?”

“That is a stunning feat of Vulcan logic, Spock,” she replies, with a snort of laughter. “Yes, it was unsuccessful.” Coffee fills the cup, soothing her jangled nerves a bit. “I’m about to just pay one of my Comms ensigns to go do it for me.”

“I believe that could be classified as an abuse of power under the Starfleet officers’ code.”

“And what exactly are they going to do at this point, put me on ground duty for it?” she demands, slugging back half the brew in one pull. It’s five o-clock _somewhere_ in the galaxy, and she eyes the bottle of Andorian creamer speculatively. Spock’s pointed look brings her back to reality, and she sighs. “I’m _aware_ , Spock. I am vocalizing my frustration to avoid a more physical or emotional reaction to it. _Ken-tor?_ ”

“Ah. Then please proceed.”

“I’m done now,” she replies dryly. “But thank you for listening. It was a most valiant effort.”

Putting the padd aside, he stands gracefully and moves into the kitchenette area. “Nyota, despite the fact that we are not…engaged in a romantic relationship at the moment, if you require my presence during such ventures you need only request it. Perhaps I would have been of use in mitigating the frustration you are experiencing.”

“Oh, _gods_ , no – the last thing a touch-telepath needs is to be stuck in the middle of that mess of a shopping centre. Even I could sense the greed and commercialism being broadcasted in the main square, you wouldn’t have lasted ten minutes. Jim took one look at the lines and bailed on me, the coward.” She doesn’t exactly blame him, but it was a little insulting, acting like she’d be fooled by a flimsy excuse like _forgetting about a_ _meeting with the commodore_. “I just wish –” She bites off the rest of the sentence before it can do more harm than good. The past can’t be fixed, and all they can do is move forward. Dwelling on the horror of recent weeks won’t help anyone. Here they are, and here they will be until they have a new ship – and even then, who knows if it will even feel the same.

Until then, they all have to deal with their demons as best they can.

But Spock is (of course) still fixated on the earlier part of her story, adorably perturbed on her behalf. “The captain did not accompany you as promised?”

“I don’t need a knight in shining armor, Spock,” she says dryly, putting the cup in the cleansing unit with a dull _thonk_. “He was there to carry the damn panini maker Scotty’s been eyeing, not as protection from the masses.”

Spock’s eyebrows are the Vulcan equivalent of an exasperated sigh. “I have reason for my inquiry, Nyota. Doctor McCoy just this morning expressed…concerns, about his recent behavior.”

That gives her pause, and she half-turns, holding an unopened packet of almonds from the bowl on the counter. “How so? And since when do your therapy sessions involve gossiping about another patient?”

That’s a 100% human eyeroll, he’s not even trying to hide it. “You are aware that the content of all such sessions is completely private, Nyota. I would not discuss such with you, nor would Doctor McCoy discuss any crewman’s with me.”

And that’s not even close to accurate, they basically win the grand prize for functionally dysfunctional family at this point and gods know their boundaries are pretty grayed out, but whatever. She gestures with the almonds for him to continue.

“However, we do have a standing weekly meeting in a tea house here on the ‘Base for the purpose of discussing ship’s business in a more unofficial capacity.”

She pauses in her wrangling of the recycled packaging. “Is Jim _aware_ you have a regularly scheduled gossip club about him?”

“I believe I stated it is for the purpose of –“

“I heard perfectly well what you stated,” she snorts, tossing the almonds back into the bowl. They’re not worth it anyway, not even chocolate coated. “And we all know what that means. Wait, since when does McCoy drink gourmet _tea_?”

Spock sighs patiently. “The establishment is apparently able to replicate a particularly revolting iced version that resembles sugar syrup more than the hot beverage native to the Terran Asian continent.”

“Ah. That figures. Sorry, go on.”

“You are aware that the captain has always been…enthusiastic, about the holidays.”

“Gods, yes. He’s a terror aboard ship….was, a terror, aboard ship.” She shakes her head, dismissing the slip hastily. “The man’s a child at Christmas, though heaven only knows why. I doubt he had a happy childhood, it doesn’t really check out if you think about it.”

Spock’s eyes darken slightly. “He did not. And Doctor McCoy informs me that this fascination with the Terran holiday season did not develop until after his enrollment into Starfleet Academy.”

“That’s a little odd, but sort of makes sense.”

“I do not believe it wise for us to attempt to analyze this information, for the captain’s privacy.”

“Fair enough.” Once again coming up short on a stress snack search, she gives up and finally turns around, slamming the last cupboard door shut. “But you’re saying, because he’s always been a freak about the Terran Christmas season, and McCoy’s concerned - I’m guessing he’s not acting himself about the holidays right now?”

“Apparently not. One would think –“

“Because Yorktown looks like a solstice festival vomited everywhere you go, one would think he’d be a kid in a candy store on this place, right.” She shakes her head ruefully. “The man did just lose his ship, Spock. He’s not going to be singing _Joy to the Worlds_ , exactly.”

“I am aware.” Spock shifts uneasily. “But given that we missed all signs of his deteriorating mental state prior to the…incidents which led to the _Enterprise_ ’s destruction…”

“Right, yeah, I got it.”

They had all, to a man in the upper command chain, agreed that that could _not_ happen again. Jim had no idea they’d all had The Talk, and he never would know if they had anything to say about it – but when his personal logs became public knowledge in the ‘Fleet investigation after the Battle of Yorktown? It was like a sucker punch, realizing that they’d all been so wrapped up in their own dramas, both personal and professional, that literally no one except McCoy to some extent had realized how close their leader had been to crashing and burning. The idea of the _Enterprise_ with someone else at the helm was just…wrong, and it would have split them all apart more quickly than Khan or anyone else could ever do. Someone should have picked up on the fact Kirk was in a weird place aboard ship before he felt it necessary to ask for a freaking _transfer to a starbase_ without even discussing it with any of them. The man had every right to further his own career, obviously – that wasn’t the issue. But if it was just because he was spiraling out of control and didn’t know what else to do? That was something they should have caught. _Someone_ should have noticed, and it was an entirely personal wake-up call for all of them unrelated to the following tragedy itself.

“He was not acting strangely prior to leaving you in the shopping centre?”

“No, he seemed fine to me. Even picked up a tiny little Starfleet captain’s uniform to gift to Demora for the holiday, it was kind of adorable. But you know he can fool any of us,” she sighs. “He just said he forgot about a meeting at ‘Fleet HQ and bailed on me once we saw the main shop I wanted to hit was packed to the brim. Looked a little panicky, actually, now that I think about it. I mean, I don’t blame him exactly – we all are still dealing with this stuff in weird ways, Spock.”

She herself? She still for some reason doesn’t like looking out of windows at night. It’s the weirdest thing, but sometimes she’ll just see the _Enterprise_ ’s saucer section retreating in the distance against the stars and think she’s going to turn around, trapped in a small section of Engineering with an enemy who could kill her in seconds for letting the saucer section get away. They all still need therapy for a reason, and she’s dead sure not going to be the one critiquing other people for how they’re dealing with their own trauma.

“Understood. I would still be more at ease, if we were to investigate. Especially given that Doctor McCoy is about to leave the ‘Base.”

“Agreed. Jim will have his head if he cancels that trip.”

McCoy is taking the opportunity their extended ground leave offers to head back to Terra, to see his daughter over the last half of the winter holidays. Given the distance, he’d only get a week with her before having to turn around and come back for his next term at Yorktown Medical – and that was if the transports were on time. He’s slated to leave tomorrow, and while Jim would never in a million years think of doing anything but seeing the shuttle off himself, it’s probably still rough having a loved one away at the holidays.

That too, might have contributed to the captain’s state of mind, now that she thinks about it. None of them have really seen much of Kirk in the last two weeks, actually. The Terran Christmas season culminates at the end of this week, and by now if they were aboard ship they would all be just about ready to murder the man after fending off a barrage of holiday cheer so aggravatingly chipper it’s almost unnatural. From throwing a ship-wide Secret Santa exchange their very first year out (despite protests that it was _seriously lame, sir_ and the fact that 70% of the crew didn’t even celebrate the holiday, they apparently were going to receive gifts whether they liked it or not) to scrounging up a half-inebriated engineering department to go honest-to-gods caroling from cabin to cabin in the lower decks the next year, their winter holidays have been memorable, to say the least.

She vividly remembers the Christmas after Khan, when they were all still dancing around multiple elephants in the room, baggage undealt-with only scant weeks after it all went so very, very wrong following that disastrous Nibiru mission. There were no big parties or grand gestures that year, no halls of the ship ringing with laughter and terrible jokes and that god-awful Christmas music Kirk somehow found opportunity to blast out of the computer banks every chance he could without breaking major regulations.

Just a few strings of fairy lights hung in a sloppy zig-zag on the ceiling of a recovery room at Starfleet Medical, with a holographic projection of an evergreen aimed over top of them. No presents and no cookies and no stockings or any other paraphernalia of the season; they all had been hit in the face recently with the harsh reality that physical _things_ just…didn’t matter, really.

Jim still swears that it was the regen meds making his eyes water when he blinked them open from yet another exhaustion-fueled nap and saw the sad little decorations over his bed, and they all still swear they believe him.

That holiday was the first time she seriously considered breaking up with Spock, and not because he’d had a more emotional reaction to Kirk’s death than he’d ever had to anything about her – but because this mess they made? It couldn’t happen again. They all played a part in that clusterfuck that spiraled out of control, ending in a tragedy of epic proportions that, but for the actions of a madman, would have sent them all to opposite corners of the galaxy. She’d never been as pissed as she was when she, as Comms Chief, saw Spock’s _Bradbury_ transfer orders come in. And then Kirk’s demotion orders a few hours later – and then upon confronting him, she heard Spock’s explanation as to why they were happening, and with such rapid finality.

His hasty decision had fractured whatever relationships they’d worked to build in that too-short span of time out in the void. She couldn’t pass judgment on who was right and who was wrong – but all decisions had consequences, and these were drastic for all of them. She did not appreciate being forced to divide loyalties, and said so. Clearly.

Spock was more shocked than anything else at her reaction, obviously expecting her to instantly side with him, and that tension carried over into their covert mission, which went to hell even faster than anticipated. She doesn’t know if their personal drama was partly to blame for that or not, and has long since dealt with that particular brand of guilt.

But as they watched their two youngest Bridge crewmen argue in hushed tones about the precise placement of the fairy-lights, they both almost in unison agreed to never again allow such a fate to befall the _Enterprise_. They would be a united front now, against the ‘Fleet itself if need be (for if there was a Section 31, then there no doubt were others), to protect what they had at all costs. Their relationship would immediately cease, if it ever threatened to disrupt the command chain of the _Enterprise_ ; and together, they would be a force to be reckoned with.

Now, they find themselves in something of the same position, after another tragedy of even greater magnitude. And while they have decided that for now, their personal relationship must remain on hold as they navigate the trauma following Krall’s attack on them, the guardians of the broken _Enterprise_ are not going to allow what remains of her crew to suffer the same fate as the ship herself.

* * *

**Act Two**

The starbase Yorktown is, to its credit, the most liberal ‘base in the sector, thanks to very lax intergalactic trade laws, low tariffs, and a nearly non-existent crime rate that hasn’t really changed throughout the ‘base’s history. Even with a strong ‘Fleet presence, it’s not difficult to find any and all pleasures a being could wish for, humanoid-centric or otherwise.

That said, it appears that even this most inclusive of places has fallen into the unfortunate trap of most starbases its size: becoming host to _way_ too many tourist attractions and eating establishments that have made overcharging for cheap alcohol a fine art, just because they _can_. Crewmen who have spent months in deep space are not very picky about where they get their entertainment or a decent non-replicated meal, and Yorktown offers everything a man could want – in any form, from any being. If you have the cash to pay for it, that is.

It being the winter holidays, this apparently is license for the starbase to charge four times what anything is worth to good men and women on leave from their ships. He’d literally forgotten what it was like to have to pay for anything, and greed and commercialism are not a pleasant experience to come back to. The fact that “buying him a drink” seems to be awkward code for “thanks for not getting our space snowglobe blown up two months ago” is just a depressing reminder that its likely no one would even notice him or care he existed if his face hadn’t been plastered all over the usually-boring holonets on the ‘base for weeks afterwards. It was the most excitement they’d had on this place in years, that was all.

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, recently of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ and currently on extended ground leave during the construction of the _Enterprise-A_ , is not enjoying the spirit of the season.

It’s on one such depressing evening that he sits in a subtle side booth of a nondescript jazz bar on the ‘Base, thankfully not having drawn attention from anyone but the bartender, who’s been curiously eyeing him for the last hour but at least leaving him alone after having eagerly opened a tab under his way-too-famous name. He should have brought a book with him, but he hasn’t quite reached _that_ level of pathetic yet, thanks very much. The alcohol here is shit, and that matches his night so far, and he’s about to call it quits when the last person he’d expect slides into the booth opposite.

He does a double-take, because one, what. And two, _what_. “The hell are you doing here.”

Spock’s eyebrow inclines slightly under the ridiculous beanie he’s wearing. Jim owes Nyota five credits, she actually got him to wear it. _Not engaged in a relationship at the moment_ , his ass.

“Being asked obvious questions, apparently.”

Vulcan sass, honestly. “I forgot my communicator, so there’s no way anyone knew where I was.” Suddenly suspicious, he looks down at his civilian clothes. “Don’t tell me you gave _me_ something with a tracking device in it at some point that I don’t know about.”

Spock’s lips twitch. “Negative. It is standard security procedure on the starbase if a ranking officer is alone at this time of the evening and possibly under the influence, to notify the next ranking officer of said officer’s location.”

“I am not _under the influence_ ,” and the sarcastic air-quotes are quite steady enough, thank you very much. “Believe me, it’d take a lot more than this cheap excuse for Tellarian whisky to do that.” He runs a hand over his face with a sigh. “Good policy though. Prevents any embarrassing incidents for the ‘Fleet.”

“I did not believe you were contemplating any such incidents.”

“No? Why are you here doing the babysitting then? You really draw the short straw?”

His First at least does not pretend ignorance of the metaphor. “No such division of duty occurred, Captain. I merely wished to…ascertain your state of mind.”

Cocking an eye at him over the watered-down whisky, Jim regards him with well-founded wariness. It sounds like a trap, and he’s walked into plenty of them over the years. “You’re…checking on me?”

“Affirmative.”

“That’s…weirdly nice, Spock. But I’m fine, obviously.” A sweeping gesture with the glass, as he deftly manages to not slosh liquid anywhere. “I’m good. Enjoying the Christmas _cheer_ , if you know what I mean.”

“I do not, and I do not believe you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“I do not believe you are, as you say, fine,” Spock repeats patiently. Doggedly. Like the Vulcan pain he is.

“Jesus.” He signals the bartender, who only shrugs and gestures to his First. “I am definitely not drunk enough for _this_. Why the hell is he not…did you close my tab?”

“I did.”

“I swear to _god_ , Spock, one of these days you’re going to do something that actually pisses me off enough to transfer you.” He massages his temples briefly with both hands, reining in his frustration. And the weird urge to laugh, because this is his life. Fuck his life.

“That is statistically unlikely. Sir.”

He drops his head with a thud onto both folded arms on the table. “Go _away_ , Commander.” The command is muffled into the sleeves of his battered jacket, and unfortunately even he can tell there’s no real heat behind it.

“I will, but only in your company.”

“Oh you will, will you.” He hides a smile in his elbow.

“It would be illogical for you to remain in an establishment that will no longer serve you, Captain. I also believe that –”

“Oh my god, fine.” He slides out of the booth and storms toward the door, throwing a barely-apologetic look at the poor bartender who obviously didn’t have the guts to stand against a Vulcan.

He pauses just outside, taken aback by the honest-to-gods _snow_ that’s started falling while he was inside, and only comes back to himself when Spock nearly bowls him over in his haste to catch up. The simulated snow falls around them in gentle flakes, giving the appearance of a traditional winter season but strangely without the chill that would accompany it in a naturally-occurring weather pattern. Yorktown simulates weather patterns for the sake of normality, but without the swings in temperature that accompany them, keeping the domed city a temperate climate at all times in deference to all species who live on it, cool and warm blooded.

They set off down the street amid a flurry of gentle flakes that soon speckle their dark jackets, not melting like snow should in the warmth of the air.

“This fake snow is so weird,” he mutters. “I hate it.”

“Indeed? I find the lack of cold a vast improvement.”

“You would.” The words aren’t an insult, and Spock doesn’t seem to take it as one. He grins, sticks out his tongue to eat a falling flake, and chokes on the vaguely silicon-like taste it leaves behind. “Gross. They don’t even taste like snowflakes. That’s total bullshit.”

“I would presume they are not created for the primary purpose of ingestion.” The _you colossal idiot_ is unspoken but quite clear.

“ _Yeah_ , but it’s part of the whole experience. It’s just…wrong.” He kicks a pile of replicated snow from underfoot in a spray of lightweight slush. “Everything about this is just…wrong,” he adds, an almost unconscious afterthought, and so quiet he doubts Spock even hears above the sounds of traffic to their right.

They continue in silence for a few steps, and then, “I presume snowfall was a key focal point in your holiday experiences on Earth?” Spock inquires.

“Ehh.” He shrugs, hands in his pockets, and side-steps a hole in the walkway – an unusual sight in the pristine sidewalks and streets of this too-perfect place. “It didn’t snow much in San Fran, obviously. So I always missed it at Christmastime, in the Academy. I was used to seeing two-foot Iowa snow drifts and then poof, nothing but gross rain from November to March.”

“You never returned to Riverside for the students’ winter break?”

“You know damn well I’ll never step foot in that town again unless I have to, Spock. Why the sudden interest in my illogical fascination with winter precipitation? Even you aren’t usually this awkward butting into my private business.” The words aren’t the attack they might have been years ago, more amused than anything else - but there’s still a defensive edge in them that hopefully warns Spock not to push his luck. This is not the day, and he is not in the mood. “Bones has been running his mouth, hasn’t he.”

“I hardly think that is an atypical state of being for him,” Spock observes wryly into the night, and Jim has to laugh.

“That may be, but you don’t play dumb very well, Commander. What’s he been telling you?”

“Nothing I did not already know, Captain.” Spock glances his direction as they turn onto a more traveled street, now headed over a glass-floored bridge that overlooks several levels of thoroughfares far below. It’s a dizzying sight, lights and traffic and people below, with even more whizzing by overhead on hovercars and the lightning rail that circles the outer dome. Jim is not afraid of heights, but it is still an unnerving thing, walking on transparent aluminium suspended high above the rest of the city.

“And that is?”

“That you are missing your usual… _obnoxious holiday spirit_ , I believe is the term he used.”

“I am not obnoxious! You all are just grinches. I’m _not_ obnoxious.”

“I know several…dozen, crewmen, who would beg to differ, sir.”

They both carefully ignore that terrible slip. They can no longer say they know several hundred, for there were barely over a hundred fifty survivors of the _Enterprise_ ’s recent destruction. It is a tragedy they apparently still have not assimilated – even Spock, apparently, hasn’t assimilated it, which isn’t a good sign, and makes him want to panic a little. He’s so adrift he needs to know at least someone has it _together_. Hopefully that was just a slip of the tongue, and everyone else is doing as well as they look like; hopefully he’s the only one spinning out of control and hiding it.

But the damage has been done, and the levity which had started to lift the conversation has vanished in the weight of what was not said. A hovercab’s horn beeps behind them, the sound jarring in the awkward stillness.

“Captain, I –“

“It’s fine, Spock.” The upraised hand is a warning, a tired gesture that the apology is both unwarranted and unwanted. He can’t deal with this tonight, he just can’t.

In silence, they continue along the busy bridge for a few moments, dodging hurrying passersby who are carrying brightly-wrapped packages or screaming younglings. Jim deftly skirts a harried-looking Katarran pushing a stroller full of what has to be at least eight tiny, squalling kits, and has not quite recovered his balance on the snow-strewn path when a large Fellustarian carrying an oversized be-ribboned parcel that blocks their vision slams squarely into him, shouting an apology as they continue barreling onward into the crowd. He’s nearly knocked off his feet by the being twice his body mass, and stumbles sideways, flailing ungracefully for his footing on the smooth transparent walkway, made hazardous by the flakes of snow that do not melt as actual snow would.

A grunt and some creative swearing, and he finally manages to haul himself back upright. “Definitely settled, I hate this place,” he mutters. Only then does he realize his flailing hand had landed on Spock’s thinly-layered wrist in the scuffle, and he releases it hastily. “Shit, sorry.” He is not wearing gloves, and though a very tactile human by nature, has at least tried to always be respectful of Spock’s touch-telepathy.

Unfortunately, it looks like it might be too late.

Spock is frozen, eyes wider than he’s ever seen, and doesn’t even move his arm after Jim releases it.

Even McCoy has no idea how bad it really is – none of them do.

And until now, he had intended to keep it that way.

“Oh, I am _so_ not drunk enough for this,” he mutters, turning and striding off across the bridge in a series of weave-and-dodge maneuvers that forces Spock to nearly run to catch up.

“Captain, wait,” he hears from behind him, and promptly ignores the call, just keeps walking with his hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched close to his ears. Maybe Spock will just give up and go home to Uhura if he has to make a scene.

“ _Jim_ ,” and this time Spock’s apparently close enough to grab his shoulder.

He whirls around, knocking the arm away in one practiced gesture. “ _What_. If you wanted to eavesdrop on my private thoughts, you could have just asked to sit in on a therapy session, Mr. Spock.” The words are calm, almost dangerously so. “Something tells me you’ve already done everything but that. Did you think I wasn’t aware you and Bones are having weekly _chats_ about me?”

“Negative. Given that Doctor McCoy cannot keep a secret and that paranoia is an integral characteristic of your command style, I expected you to address the matter prior to this moment.”

The words are dryer than the fake snowflakes dusting their shoulders, and he snorts in amusement despite himself, runs a hand wearily over his face. “Fair point. Okay, you win. What do you _want_ , Spock. I can’t keep doing this, so spit it out or leave me alone. I’m just…too tired to deal with the runaround tonight.”

“I do not require anything from you, Captain. I merely am…here to offer my services if I can be of assistance.”

“In what, exactly?” The irritation has started to seep from his tone, leaving only a sort of sad weariness in its place. He’s just so damn tired of…everything.

“I do not know, sir. We have all been somewhat in the dark where you are concerned, of late.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, Spock. I just figured everyone was busy doing stuff with their families and setting up ground postings, and they’ve had me up on the _Enterprise-A_ overseeing the construction more than I expected. I haven’t been checking on everyone like I sh –“

“It was not a reproach on your command duties, Jim,” his First interrupts with unusual gentleness. “Rather a testament to the fact you have been performing them alone, when it is not necessary.”

“What, you want to be dragged along to my meetings with the Commodore and the Yorktown engineers?”

“If it would mitigate the guilt you still feel about the fate of the _Enterprise_ , even months later? _Yes_ ,” Spock replies pointedly.

He can feel the blood drain from his face, even paler under the white light of the bridge’s lamps. “There’s nothing you can do about that,” he says, quiet.

“I am not certain that is true.”

“It is. It’s not your problem. I’m dealing with it.”

“I suspect both those statements are also untrue, at least to a degree. I can understand why you do not feel you can discuss such things with a subordinate, while they are still attempting to deal with the matter themselves – but there is no logical reason you should not have come to me.”

He blinks, because Spock sounds legit perturbed about the fact, as if he is genuinely upset (or the Vulcan equivalent at least), and just, no. “Seriously, you think I’m that much of an asshole? After all these years, you really think I’d come dump that on you?”

Spock blinks, looking completely mystified. “I do not follow.”

“You’re right, I don’t want to actually throw my issues at Bones, he has enough to deal with right now – if he knew where my head was he’d never go back to see JoJo and he needs to go, he’s overstretched himself here. But there’s no way in hell I would dump that on you, are you _serious_?” He turns toward the bridge railing, gesturing wildly into the night. “Right, Jim Kirk, self-centered idiot that the galaxy revolves around. Why would I do anything else.”

“That is a patently false characterization and I still do not follow.”

He half-turns, face in shadow from the lamp-light to hide the suspicious burning at the back of his eyes. “Why the hell would I come to _you_ , of all people, and say I’m finding it impossible to deal with the destruction of the only home I’ve ever known, Spock,” he says, hollowly.

The traffic of the bridge seems to slow down around them, and he can see the moment the words actually register, making logical sense at last to his First Officer – his friend, because gods know they’ve blown past professional boundaries years ago. Their lives, all their lives, are intertwined in a messy sort of ill-fated, dangerous web that he doesn’t dare think about too much because it frightens him to death now, knowing how easily any thread of that web could snap.

Even Bones doesn’t know his worst nightmares still aren’t of the _Enterprise_ herself burning on Altamid, but of specific people aboard dying in any number of scenarios that nearly happened that horrible day. The black-box recordings of the ship’s destruction tell a terrible tale of how most of his people died – and why some of the people he loves most were spared? He has no idea.

But the events of the Battle of Vulcan? They are a pain dulled by Time and softened by Memory now. It still aches – a little less with each day, week and month that passes, but it does; and he can’t imagine how much more, how much exponentially more, it must for an actual Vulcan. And Spock apparently hadn’t made the connection until now, that the _Enterprise_ was the only home Jim had ever really known, the _Enterprise_ crew the only family he’d ever really had – now, both broken and fragmented and Jim himself, set fully adrift in a way he’d never before experienced. But in a way that his First Officer most certainly _had_ , and one he wasn’t about to bring up in casual conversation, for the love of all things sacred.

“I mean, I remember you in those first few months – gods, there were days I thought you had a death wish, but you still held the crew together, held _me_ together when the whole galaxy seemed against us, you know? Just…how? And here I am, not even able to keep my shit together for one day without wishing I’d still been in the saucer section when it hit Altamid. It would be so much easier if I’d just gone down with the ship, Spock.”

Spock makes a strange, almost choked sound, and he hates that he even let that slip. It’s a dangerous feeling, and he knows it. His head’s not in a good place right now, and he’s well aware of the fact. But what can you do? He’s not a fool, and more importantly, he’s not a foolish officer – he isn’t going to do anything stupid. Especially when Bones is about to leave the Base, he’d never do that to someone he loves, especially when he knows it’ll pass. Supposedly.

It doesn’t make things any easier, though. It’s a hell of a lot harder to be a survivor, than to make the ultimate sacrifice.

He should know; he’s done both now.

“So yeah.” A brittle, bitter laugh, and he leans over to look out at the glittering expanse below them. He hears Spock scramble forward hastily at his movement, although there are force-fields in place to prevent anyone falling more than three feet below the railings, and he immediately steps back from the edge. “Sorry. I didn’t come to you because. Yeah.”

“Because you believed it would be in…poor taste, given our history.”

“Something like that.”

“Jim. The status of one being’s grief does not negate the severity of another’s. You yourself told Lieutenant Uhura this when she was attempting to deal with her own loss at the Battle of Vulcan, when I was of no use in comforting her.”

He blinks, because he honestly doesn’t remember saying that bullshit and honestly has no idea anything he said in those early days was even worth remembering. He was a stupid kid with delusions of grandeur and more arrogance than brains back then, and the only thing that’s really changed since is that the ratio has improved on the last two. “I said that?”

“In the days following Nero’s defeat as we were traveling back to Earth, yes. You told her that I was not the only one who lost family and acquaintances that day, and that she had the right to grieve as much as I.” Spock sighs, the sound almost lost in the hustle of the walkway around them. “It was a wise sentiment, one I was emotionally incapable of appreciating at the time.”

“Well. I’m smarter than I look.” The words are flippant, but his tone is unsteady, and it’s obvious to both of them.

“The situation applies here as well, Jim.” Spock joins him at the railing, looking out at the city life below and the star-strewn dome beyond, tiny pinpoints indicating the edges of the protective bubble encapsulating Yorktown base. “And I would ask you to remember, you are not the only one who lost their home, and their crew, when the _Enterprise_ was destroyed.”

Way to make him feel like a self-centric asshole. “I –“

“Allow me to finish,” Spock says, and he subsides, staring down at his arms folded on the railing. “You have told me that you still blame yourself for the destruction of Vulcan. I believe this is also a tragedy we must shoulder together, for the rest of our careers. It cannot be altered, but it can be dealt with. How, is up to us.”

Jim side-eyes him, shaking his head. “You make a compelling scientific argument, Mr. Spock. But I’m not good at sharing. I can only promise to try.”

“I am aware of the truth in all three of those statements.”

He snorts, blinking rapidly against the light.

“Effort will suffice, Jim. That is all your crew requires. You should allow yourself the same margin of error.”

“You make it sound so easy.” The words are quiet, almost wistful, amid the harried furor of the traffic behind them on the walkway.

“I am under no illusion it will be so. However, this time, when this _Enterprise_ launches, we have the opportunity to ensure she does so without the mistakes of the past.”

Jim snorts, staring out into the night. “We made a hell of a lot of mistakes, Spock. We’re lucky most of them still turned out okay and had no real repercussions. Hell, we’re lucky we didn’t just go up in a ball of fire that first year out or something.”

“I am aware. Our professional errors, minor and otherwise, should not be repeated. Nor should our personal conflicts.”

A slow, thoughtful nod. “We can be more careful, this time.”

“The captain actually following landing party regulations, for example.”

“Don’t push your luck.” A grin tugs at his lips, genuine enough, but he sobers the next minute, because this is important. “And you and me? Can you commit to finishing the mission? I’m sure they’ll offer you a ship when we’re done, but at least those two years…I need to know you’re going to finish with us, Spock, or I don’t think I can take that chair back. With the colony, and the Ambassador’s death…”

“Ambassador Spock made provisions for any…requirements, that might be needed for the repopulation efforts at the colony from us,” Spock replies, with only a slight fidget of awkwardness at the topic.

Interesting. So the old man literally took away the last excuse Spock would have to leave the ship. How did he even know? Jim sends out a prayer to whatever gods of the universe – multiverse – might care about them, to send the old Vulcan on his way in peace, because the poor guy definitely deserved it.

“And I have no desire to captain a ship of my own, now or in the near future,” Spock continues, readily enough. “I have already recommended to Starfleet Command that they simply extend the _Enterprise-A_ ’s mission for another five years once we finish the original, allowing for any crew transfers who wish it. Lieutenant Sulu, for example, may wish to return here on Yorktown to settle in a permanent family group, but I doubt most of the remaining crewmen will wish to do so.”

This is news to him. Not Sulu’s plans, that’s been obvious for the last couple of weeks – but Spock’s already having gone over his head to recommend a second mission, much less turn down a captaincy. “Are you _nuts_? The _Excelsior_ will be finished in three years, and they’d be idiots not to offer her to you!”

“That is irrelevant. As long as you captain the _Enterprise_ , I will remain your first officer. You may…rest easy, on that point.” Spock inclines one eyebrow in the equivalent of a shrug at his incredulous look. “Your emotional responses are not a consideration in my decision.”

“My emotional – gods, I need alcohol.” Running both hands through his hair, he scatters a flurry of faux snowflakes before pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “You can’t just hit me with this and walk away, Spock.”

“I have not moved since speaking last. A fact I should like to rectify, as we are already late for the holiday gathering for which I have been ordered to retrieve you.”

He laughs at that, and tries to choke down the edge of rising hysteria in the sound. Finally turns to wave down a hovercab, and glances over his shoulder as it pulls to a perfectly automated stop beside them. “I wondered how long you were going to pretend it was supposed to be a surprise. You have zero poker face, Commander.”

He slides his credit chip through the door reader and inputs the destination of the apartment building in which Starfleet has put up the primary command crew members while the construction is being done.

“Unfortunately, I have been made aware of this.” Spock slides into the cab after him. “Doctor McCoy still demanded I be the one to retrieve you, for reasons known only to him.”

“Oh, I think he knew what he was doing,” he says quietly, settling back on the heated seat. “Let’s go home, Spock.”

* * *

**Act Three**

The starbase Yorktown is, to its credit, the most medically advanced ‘base in the sector, thanks to its location positioned at the crossroads of intergalactic trade routes and interplanetary travel charts, being a primary Federation and Starfleet Academy hub, and as one of the few last ports of call before uncharted space begins. With a strong ‘Fleet presence on-base, it only makes sense that Yorktown is the center of all medical advances and experimental treatments in this sector.

That said, it appears that even this most inclusive of places can have the same pitfalls as that of a ‘base half its size: of overworking its medical staff without proper compensation, recognition, or concern for their mental health and well-being. In their defense, Yorktown has until a few months ago been a fairly sleepy place, with little excitement and little need for the sudden influx of mental health care and advanced physical health care as came with the unfortunate events they’re so politically correctly calling The Battle of Yorktown. They obviously were underprepared and understaffed for the slew of traumatized young crewmen from the _Enterprise_ , the station itself and the outlying beacon stations, who were attempting to recover from a widescale attack and wholesale tragedy.

It now being the winter holidays, that has apparently given rise to a whole new scale of issues, primarily mental health issues, that the genial staff of Yorktown Medical were unprepared for, and they’ve been scrambling ever since to properly care for affected crewmen, both from the _Enterprise_ and not. From physical therapy to trauma counseling, the medical staff of Yorktown base is overworked and underappreciated, and it’s taking a toll on everyone.

Lieutenant-Commander Leonard McCoy, recently of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_ and currently on extended ground leave during the construction of the _Enterprise-A_ , is not enjoying the spirit of the season.

To add to the daily issues from Starfleet Medical, is the fact that the only time he could work out to go see Joanna just didn’t coincide with a convenient time for the rest of the _Enterprise_ crew. He has to leave now, in order to be back in time for preliminary _A_ crew selections next month – a task he must be present for, as they will require extensive psych evals given the first _Enterprise_ ’s fate – and as it stands, he’ll barely have a week with his daughter on Earth before having to turn right around and come back. Most of the _Enterprise_ crew who were shipping off-base for the ground leave left weeks ago, but he stayed to counsel the remnants of their broken people; he could hardly leave them to the harried, well-meaning but somewhat impersonal staff of Yorktown Medical when he could stay himself.

But Jim had all but ordered him out now, in fact had set up the trip himself, knowing his CMO wouldn’t leave unless forced to. He can hardly reneg on the thing at this point, and disappoint his little girl and his captain, pain in the ass though he might be.

“Pretty sure we’ll all survive without you for a month at this point, Bones,” Jim had said flippantly – too flippantly, in retrospect – “and you’re no good to anybody working yourself into the ground. You’ll be on that transport or I’ll send Spock with you as an escort. I’m sure he’d love to spend the time going over his ideas on how to improve your efficiency in the new Sickbay. I think he has a _list_.”

He didn’t deserve that, thanks very much, and had said so. (Also, like he’d leave Jim alone on Yorktown without a babysitter. Spock was a poor substitute for a bio-monitor, but at least he had a proven success rate in captain-wrangling.)

Case in point, he’d apparently managed to pull their errant leader back from wherever Jim had been hiding for the last four hours and is even now hauling him back to face the holiday music (and whatever god-awful excuse for Christmas punch Montgomery Scott is finishing up in the kitchenette).

“If he has an allergic reaction to anything in that, you’re not gonna enjoy your next physical,” he shouts over the sound of Chekov stepping on what he hopes is only a cheap ornament. Based on the cursing in fluent Russian, it is.

“Here now! There’s naught in that punch but will do anythin’ but good to the lot of ye!”

Great, the man’s accent is nearly undecipherable, so he’s likely been taste-testing for an hour already.

Across the room, the stereo suddenly blasts out what is very definitely not traditional holiday music at full volume, causing everyone to jump and Uhura to drop her mixing bowl. He’s impressed with how patiently she explains to Jaylah what an appropriate decibel level is for such a gathering. Jaylah, however, is less impressed, and edges the volume up with a well-aimed steel-toed boot as soon as Uhura walks away. It’s a battle he doesn’t feel like fighting right now. Or ever, given that the girl could whoop his ass with her eyes closed. Let Jim deal with it when he gets back.

A childish giggle from behind him, and he snags Demora by the waist just in time to prevent her from playing with the colorful shards of plasticene Chekov is still attempting to sweep up with a threadbare broom.

“Mr. Sulu! Do I need to give you more literature about child safety!”

Red-faced, their helmsman hastily takes the child from him, while her other father merely laughs, handing over a dustpan and beginning to run the handheld vac over the remaining tiny pieces.

“Dear lord, it’s like babysittin’ a bunch of toddlers.”

“Here.” A red cup appears in front of his nose, and Uhura wiggles it slightly with a pointed look. “You need this, apparently. Sit down and _chill_ , for pity’s sake.”

“I –“

“Need to calm down before he gets here, or it’s going to be an antimatter explosion. Have a _drink_ , Doctor. Or I’ll put you to work in here.”

He rolls his eyes, but sits in the closest chair to the kitchenette. Based on their last location, Spock and Jim should be back in less than five minutes. Jaylah is currently poking curiously at the garland hung over the fireplace, and he wouldn’t put it past her to light it on fire just for the hell of it, so he hopes that timetable is accurate.

 _Crasssssssh_.

“Pavel, seriously!”

“I did not do this time! Eet was Demora!”

“Sure, blame it on the kid.”

“Was not me!”

“I swear to god, if I have to come out there again!” Uhura’s flying ponytail and blazing eyes appear over the top of the kitchenette, where she’s trying to wrangle an impressive platter of appetizers. “Clean it up. _Now_.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ _Da_. I get vacuum.”

He raises an eyebrow as their two youngest Bridge crew scramble to get rid of the offending ornament.

“Not planning on little ones of your own anytime soon, are you?” he asks in curiosity, poking a head over the kitchenette counter.

“Hell, no.” The platter is shoved down the counter with a definitive _thwang_. “I have enough children to deal with on this ship. Had enough. Whatever.” She stops, head hanging for a moment. “Is this ever going to get any easier?”

“Easy. It will. Give yourself a break, Lieutenant.” She’s doing incredibly well, and she’s a damn strong woman. She’ll make a fearsome captain someday if she ever puts her mind to it, and he makes a note to mention that to Jim. “Anyway, I was just checking.”

“Just being a busybody, you mean.”

“That too,” he replies amiably, toasting her with his glass.

She snorts, but finally cracks a grins at him over the last tray of food. They’re about to continue the sparring when the door opens – finally – and disgorges the figures of their commanding officers, still covered in fake snowflakes from the first part of their journey home.

Jim stops dead in surprise at the sight of his apartment transformed into a festive holiday scene, and McCoy doesn’t blame him there. The place had been horribly depressing, void of personality and life and color – and now it looks like Santa’s Workshop exploded all over the walls, fake fireplace and oversized replicated conifer in the corner. It’s the kind of thing the kid loves, and basically the rest of them really don’t – and Jim will know that.

“Uhhh,” is the eloquent greeting they all receive, until Spock nudges him none too gently into the room so that he can shut the door.

There’s an awkward pause.

“Surprise!” Demora suddenly shrieks into the somewhat stilted silence, whereupon she throws a celebratory stuffed reindeer at Chekov. This effectively breaks the ice better than any of them could have, because an embarrassed Ben hastily shushes her and the rest of them laugh, Jim included.

Thus encouraged, the room erupts into noisy chatter as their startled captain is whisked off to look at his obnoxious decorations and greet his waiting crew. McCoy sees Scotty plop a glittery purple Santa hat on the man’s head just before he disappears briefly into the group by the tree. Spock fastidiously folds his coat over the arm of a chair and moves over to the kitchenette, greeting Uhura with what looks suspiciously like a very human smile, the traitor.

“Looks like you might have mission accomplished, Commander,” McCoy says quietly, watching as Jim swings Demora up onto his shoulders to see the lighted star on top of the tree. Chekov shoves a brightly wrapped package into his hands a moment later, bouncing like a puppy in his excitement.

“Perhaps. At the least, it is a step forward, Doctor.” The words are equally quiet, but not as somber as they had been earlier today. Uhura comes to stand beside them, leaning on the back of his chair as she watches the scene.

“Forward is the only direction we got left. We all have to take that step.” He glances up, and sees his determination mirrored. “But we take it together this time.”

“Agreed, Doctor.”

“We take it together,” Uhura adds quietly, as Jim laughs for the first time in days.


End file.
